Sick's First Hit
by waspinthelotus
Summary: SLASH. Chap. 6 is up. Takes place before the movie, also based off of the novel. Mark's POV. Mark Renton gives Sickboy his first taste of heroin... among other things.
1. Heroin

Disclaimer: I do not own the movie(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Sick's First Hit  
Author: c. dirt (mui)  
Summary: Fic takes place before the movie, based more off the original novel. Simon AKA "Sick Boy" gets his first taste of heroin under Marc Renton's expert supervision, while Marc carefully (or not-so-carefully) attempts the delicate art of seduction. But in the end, who is really being seduced?  
Rating: NC-17 for sex and graphic drug-use  
Pairings: Sick Boy/Renton, of course  
Disclaimer: Trainspotting and ALL the characters mentioned in this fic were created by the genius Irvine Welsh. I am simply using them for my own perverted fangirl desires in this fanfic, and no profit is being made. Now, onto the good stuff!

--  
He looks scared, propped up against the dingy wall like that, tourniquet clenched in his teeth, his eyes wide and garish. Like a little boy. Simon smells like cheap cologne and sweat. My mouth hangs inches away from his ear: I tutor him, guide him. He is irresistible like this.  
"First, ye 'ave te go up… up the vain… never down, tha's nae good," My fingers tense on the plunger of the syringe. The muscles of his arm tremble beneath me.  
"Then, then ye suck a littul blood in…" I watch the redness pool in the cylinder with a vague fascination, my lips never leaving the invisible brush of his skin, the electric tingle of his unshaven cheek. Simon is beyond conventional beauty, he is gorgeous and he knew it.  
"Push dun, slowly… ahh." I grin, push the plunger as I speak, and he moans.  
The erotic sound prickles at the back of my brain, makes my lungs sting. I think of how Ali used to moan when she would get a hit, and how she said it was better than any meat injection, better than any cock in the world. He goes limp against me like a doll, and I can smell the ash in his hair, feel his dull breath on my collarbone. I try not to think about cocks.  
"Tha', Si, es the bonified shite," I murmur, quite sure he can't hear me. I yank the rubber tourniquet from his white arm and wind it about my own bicep. I turn to cook up my shot, watching him out of the corner of my eye, his body like a beautiful corpse on the floor. His clothes barely fit him; pinstripe blue pants low on his boyish hips and long legs, his torso covered in a thin layer of drug-induced sweat and a gray dress shirt. Simon always knew how to dress.  
I shoot the junk into my arm and drift into a pleasant blackness.

I wake up four hours later to see Simon writhing on the floor next to me, his lips moving fluidly but making the faintest of whimpering sounds.  
"Si? Si, what the bloody fuck are you doing," I hear the words pour from my lips, but they have very little weight to them, like floating bubbles.  
"Better than sex," His voice is shaky, halfway between a whine and a whisper. He cranes his golden-haired skull back to look at me, his eyes glassy, a crooked grin affixed to his flushed lips.  
"Tha's shite coming from you," I reply, meaning it. Simon loves sex, it's all he bloody thinks about, and the day he thinks of junk as better than shagging will be the day I kick the habit for good.  
"Ah ken," He laughs, pushing off the dingy carpet to look at me properly. "I jus, ye ken, feel like a thousand quid."  
Most blokes do after plunging 50 ml of skag into their veins. Hours after shooting heroin is like a breeze, a walk in the bloody park… until the withdrawal comes in, and the cramps, the sweating, the need. But I try not to think about that for now.  
"Are we meeting with those chickies?" I ask, rummaging through my memory of the previous night. We had met two oriental grad burds at the pub, and Si had invited them down to the game, while I stood in the corner like the biscuit-ersed cunt I am.  
"Aye," He props himself up against the wall, the wall he was laying up against just before, so bloody scared that his bairn eyes were almost popping out of his head.  
He stares at me for a good few moments, which would have made me more than slightly uncomfortable in any other situation. But I am flying, hammered, ripped, stoned, out of my box. I smile at him, clueless.  
He leans his slim frame over me and kisses me square on the lips and I freak.

"Doss cunt!" I cry, dragging myself from beneath him, feeling like my head's exploding in every direction. I want to act mad, I really do, but I start laughing, hee-hawing like an arse. He keeps on grinning at me, prodding me in the ribs with his finger, and saying: "You like it, doncha buftie?"  
Well, of course I did. Truth is, I fancy men and although I never outright say it, most of the mates know it. But Simon is not a homosexual, and his behavior was purely mate-to-mate, a playful consummation of machismo friendliness. So I gather up my balls, and give the radge a clench-jawed grin.  
"Oh, fer fucks sake, Rents," He laughs, and points at something.  
My blurry vision follows the invisible arrow from his fingertip to the crotch of my tight jeans. I'm hard, at mast, solid, aroused. I have an erection.  
"Tha's not from you!" I carry on, rolling onto my stomach to conceal my embarrassing predicament. To be truthful, I don't usually take the time to look at my knob, yet alone touch it. The junk tends to do that to you: suck all the blood out of your body and into the back of your head. It's safe for me to say that this is the first stiff one I've had in a week. But it's nonetheless bloody embarrassing.  
"Oh, it's not is it?" He laughs, but it's more like a giggle, and he has these luminous rings around his freshly baked, glassy eyes when I look up at him, hair in a golden mess. He looks as thought he's been thoroughly fucked this way and that, ravaged up good—in a way, he had been—and his appearance certainly doesn't help my cock any.  
So, shrinking away, utterly embarrassed and muddled up post-scag, the bloke still has the nerve to play around with me.  
"Want me to rub it for you?" He asks, in a tone suddenly quite serious and sultry.  
"Piss off!" Is what I say, screwing my eyeballs shut and curling into a pathetic ball. Sick Boy is a sadistic bastard, we all know that, he's the kind of radge fuck who does birds 'til they're sore, doesn't apologize and never calls them again.  
And, not surprisingly enough, it's wimpy, poofter Rent-boy, who's finding his attractive, brutal mate's manipulation to be arousing: leaning into the whip, taking the pain and wanting more.  
Shite. I really am a fucked up wanker.

"Do you, Marky? Do you want me to do you off?" His voice seems strangely closer, louder than before, as if it's right inside my skull, and then I realize he's whispering right against my ear. I'm shivering, and the heat in my cock is blossoming through my thighs and going up and down my spine in demanding, unmistakable spasms.  
I don't quite move when I feel his fingertips tracing over the bulge in my worn jeans, no, 'move' isn't the right word for it. I shudder, jarring and pathetic, gasping shamelessly and going: "Si! What the fuck 'er ye doin?"  
But I stop asking questions when I feel the moist stab of his tongue against my earlobe, and the graze of his sharp, straight teeth on my flesh.  
I know what the beautiful bastard is doing.  
He's seducing me.


	2. Tease

I'm on a fucking cloud. Remnants of the good 'ol skag floating in my brain in thick globules, gelatinous shite I imagine it, swimming through my blood like black eels… Simon's warm, impossibly smooth fingers rubbing my dick through my pants. And I can't quite believe it but I'm thrusting my hips into his hand and whining like a pitiful dog, the sensation bristling up and down my thighs and dick like an electrical fire.  
Been so long since I've had a shag… been so long since I've even touched myself… god my beautiful mate is making me unwind…  
I tilt my head back to kiss him, because that's as eloquent a thought as I can put together right now. I just want to suck his tongue into my mouth and fuck his hand like a schoolboy or a virgin. Something gritty, something obscene.  
But then, suddenly, it's gone. He pulls away with a look of absolute disgust on his face.  
The lad is staring at me with these wide, dilated eyes of his and he looks like a child all over again.  
"Rents…" He stutters. He's still stoned, the sweat sheen is still making his skin glow, and for a moment he looks like an angel. I brush the thought aside though, because I realize that the whole time, the bastard was just yanking my balls. "…you rilly are a queer, aren't you?"  
I tell him that I'm just overdue for a shagging, is all, and his expression goes a full 180, until he nods his head like he completely understands, giving me his patented Sick Boy wisdom: "Aw, we'll find ye a bird, Mark! A nice tart who'll suck yer dick off, eh?"  
He slaps me on the back in his matey way, and I almost topple over at the force of it. I give a weak, desperate smile, the skin on the back of my neck burning and prickling with embarrassment.  
He throws his coat on with a jovial, if not slightly handicapped spring to his step. "I've goat te git goin, likes. See ye at the pub, Marky, ya wee cunt!"  
When the door slams, I sit there with my cock tenting up my haggard old jeans, and I realize, with the dull prickling of the heroin in my back, that I'll be getting him back.  
I know just fuckin' how.

The pub already reeks of stale vomit and old peanut shells, and it's only eight in the fucking evening. Not that that sort of thing's unusual in the bar district of Edinburgh, what with the likes of schemies, hookers, pimps and pushers lurkin' about. Which put all of my respectable mates in their proper order, really. Except Beggars. Beggars was just psycho.  
"Any buftie cunt who screws one eyebaw in my direction, I'll slit 'is fuckin' throat! It's un-natural, that shite, blokes shagging other blokes. Should all be shot in the back of the fuckin' 'ead, they should!" Begbie was a judgemental, impulsive, violent bastard. But, he was a mate. So what can you do.  
"Eh, don't be so rash, likesay, catboy. It's not your cup of tea, likes, yeh? But people are people…" Spud murmered from across the bar. Spud was a thoughtful bloke. Too thoughtful for his own good, if you ask me. He had big round eyes that'd pierce your fucking soul, like he was genuinely a good bloke. And he was. Spud was.  
"Can we just quit it with the buftie chat? You wankers talk aboot it so much I'm starting to think you should aw just shag eachother and git it o'er wi, eh!" I hear Simon's voice commandeering over the chatter of the drunken rambling of my comrades, and my eyes follow the sound. He's seated at the booth closest to the back door, the two oriental chickies from the night before seated at either side of him.  
They've both got their hair down, and the one with the purple smock draped over her considerably shapeless, narrow shoulders was smoking a cigarette and looked bored out of her box.  
Simon isn't kissing them. He isn't groping either one of them. He isn't even bloody looking at them.  
"Oi, Sicks. Ladies." I seat myself directly in front of Simon and the two burds.  
"You remember the Rent-Boy, doncha, Camielle?" Simon turns to the chinkie burd at his left. He calls me rent-boy when he's pissed. And, considering the sour-puss, sexless vibe I'm getting from the visual before me, he has every right to be.  
It seems heroin has sent Sick Boy's genitals into a junkie limbo.  
Or maybe, just maybe…  
… it was me.  
"Are you the bloke we met yesterday? Mark Renton?" The slightly younger, bonny-faced one smiles at me, her accent mangling the common slang, and her eyes twinkle almost hopefully, as if to express her desire to be entertained, after being unforgivably bored by the disappointing state of Sick Boy, the lady-slayer, the john wayne, the shag-king.  
We dive into the grandest of small talk for the next few hours, downing pints and discussing football, politics, plastic wire-hangers and European currency. The burds twirl their hair in their fingers, and Simon sits with his hands in his pockets, staring into the false wood texturing of the booth.  
If I would've stuck around, I'd have learned that Camielle, the burd that Sick Boy had the most primary interest in just days before, had thrust her hand into his pants, only be to be brutally rejected by the confused and angry young male, who apparently ditched her in the street and drove home early and pale-faced.  
Well, fuck me.


	3. Juxtaposition

The sound of erratic pounding hammers my ears. I'm twisted on the cot, almost naked, in some sort of post-strangulation mode, covered in sweat--and that I have skag-exhaustion to thank for. See, when you lay off the junk for a few days, your body starts to break down, and all sorts of horrible realizations sink back into your spongy little brain. Stress, work, a job, bills, reputations, television, transportation, mates, coffee, parties, burds. It all just swirls up into a big ball of noise and smacks you right in the soul, and you just want to do nothing but sleep, sleep to avoid the pain of it all. Or shoot up. Which comes later, when you want it bad enough you're willing to do anything to fork the cash over.  
My eyes finally open when the front door cracks down the front and I hear a familiar voice cawing at the door: "Git tae fuck, ye limey buftie!"  
Simon's kicking my fucking door in.  
It takes a few heavy moments for me to scramble to my feet, not capable of taking leverage on the filthy linoleum, my sneakers squeaking, and I shout: "Give it a rest, Simon!"  
He literally flings himself into my apartment when I undo the locks and slide the door open. When I turn around, he lifts his head, and I get the first good look of him that I've had in days.  
He's a fucking mess.  
Pale as all hell, his skin is like fucking ice, and his ghost-yellow hair is splayed over his face, bags under his sick eyes the color of oil-stains. His clothes are too small, and even with a trim maroon blazer on he's still shaking like he's about to die.  
"What the fuck, Sicks?" I put on my best 'outraged' face, all the muscles in my jaw straining.  
"I want more, Mark. Cook us up another shot." I can see the desperation in his face, and even his teeth look transparent, flashing behind those plush lips of his.  
I turn away. This can't be happening, not this way. It's all wrong. I shouldn't let my good bloke get into it, not as bad as I am, even if I do want to seduce him, so I say: "You don't want any more, mate. It's a downward fucking spiral."  
"I can take it. Just one more, for the road. It hurts, Marky. It hurts." I look back at him. Big fucking mistake. He's giving me those big puppy dog eyes, the ones that make him look like a delectable little virgin, and the fact alone that he called me 'marky', the syllables tickling the back of my compressed brain…  
"I know!" I snap, and it's all too much. I need to lie down. I crawl back onto the corpse-gray cot and curl against the wall.  
Oh fuck no. That's his knees pushing down on the floor, making me sink closer to the ground, giving me vertigo. That's his hand planting itself on my shoulder, which is held tightly against my body, and I can feel his fingertips… shaking.  
"I've got the money, Mark."  
And before me, as my eyes unfocus at the wall in front of me, I see two neatly folded 20 pound bills held it front of me.

Mother Superior's is a fine place if you want to get absolutely buggered on heroin, and the plaster walls are splashed in obscene graffiti, giant cartoon cocks arcing over cruel suggestions and sprawled tag-names. Me and Sicks linger at the stairway, our white knuckles straining at the metal railing, just waiting for the doors to magically open. The sickness is there now, pooling in our stomachs, making us sweat bullets and ache like we've never ached before. Or atleast, it always seems like the first time, every time.  
Mother Superior is named so because of the length of his habit—he was a smarmy, tall, wide fucker, all brawn and gray hairs and he was known to have the junk shot straight into his dick if he had to. He was a man. But in our situation, he was the man.  
"Ah, gentlemen. Mark, I see you've brought us a new customer. What's the lad's name?" He led us through the dim interior, red atmospheric lighting flashing over us through the hall.  
"Simon." I say.  
"Table for two. I suppose you'll be having the usual. And the boy?"  
"The same."  
We sit facing each other on the dingy carpet. Ali's still here, I can hear her playing with her newborn in the foyer. But me and Sick, we're here on business. Simon looks like absolute shit and he hasn't looked me in the eye since we got here. He shifts and sweats.  
I pass my man the money and we do the holy exchange of cash for goods, the two pale needles glistening like jewels on the tiny napkin Mother Superior had prepared for us.  
It's not much, but it's enough.  
He finally looks at me, his eyes wide and shimmering, his face flushed. He wants it, and he wants me to do it for him. He shirks off his blazer as quickly as time will allow, peels up his sleeve, and sticks his arm in front of me.  
Carefully, I take his wrist. The stabbing pain in my gut is suddenly momentarily forgotten as I delicately run my fingers over the slender tube of junk, the familiar smoothness of medical plastic, and let my eyes wander over the pale hairs on his skin, the bluish vein protruding from his angelic flesh.  
"Just do it, Renton." He whispers, his voice trembling.  
I tie him off and sink the needle into his vein—slowly. He whimpers. My dick stirs. I can hear him swallow, and the action is laborious for him, and my thumb dances over the plunger, teasing him.  
When I meet his eyes, he's clenching his teeth. "Fucking do it."  
I push down. The scene unravels before me: Simon shudders, then throws his head back, revealing the sweet curve of his adam's apple, his neck, his eyelids fluttering. Those lips part and with it comes a guttural moan of pure ecstasy.  
I want to fuck him. I just want to hold him down and bite him and fuck him as hard as I possibly can.  
A spasm of agony jerks me from my fantasy and when Sick Boy's body falls limp against the floor I pull the tourniquet off him, tie off, and shoot up.

It wasn't enough.  
I wake up halfway through what can only be described as a delicious trip, and the back of my eyes are buzzing and it hurts again. It wasn't enough, and when I peer down at Sick, lying on his side with his long legs spread out haphazardly, he's twitching. He's awake.  
"Simon," I murmur. It's nightfall and the whole house is silent and almost pitch-black, but I can see him, his pale clothes, his glossy skin.  
I inch closer, and watch him. His chest is heaving up and down at a moderate pace, his skin glistening with perspiration, his smell that of drugs and sex and desperation. His eyes are rolled back into his head, mouth open.  
I can't take it. It's just too good of an opportunity.  
My quivering hands rise over his chest, then draw down, not touching, just hovering over his shape, feeling the heat radiating from his body. His shirt is lifted, folded over where his abdomen is, his navel and the curve of his sharp hip-bone there, and I can't resist.  
I lean ever closer, my mind buzzing, wondering if he's conscious, silent and motionless like that, his existence only being justified by the faint thumping of his heart, the soft rush of his breathing.  
My fingertips skate over his flesh, just below his navel, and he's warm, soft, and I breathe a delicate sigh across his waist. He doesn't move. He's dead to the world.  
I imagine that he's really awake, though, lying there, waiting for me to use him, and my dick tents against my jeans. I want to see more—I carefully push at the material of his thin shirt and push it over his torso, exposing a single rosy nipple and all the visible shadows of his muscles, his ribs scarcely visible, what a waif this pretty thing is…  
I want more, it's maddening, but I can't wake him, and with a whimper of frustration I pull down my zipper, the sound reverberating in the wide room, my eyes drawing over his features. The bones of his face are there, his eyes hidden in a deep shadow, his whitish hair casting finger-like extensions across the floor, his throat arched, his lips parted, and I imagine those lips wrapped around my dick when I take it in my hand.  
The first stroke is tentative as I'm dimly aware of what it is exactly that I'm doing, but I intensify the strength of it after a few moments, and with a shuddering sigh I watch my friend, eyes lazily sweeping his body, my wrist pumping.  
I reach out with one hand and dare to place my fingers on his hip again, sweeping it downwards below his navel, feeling the soft texture of his pubes poking from his hip-huggers, a darker shade than the golden plumage on his head I'm sure. I grasp myself firmly and my breathing hastens, coming out in sharp bursts.  
More, more… my mind is begging me, and with measured cautiousness I lean forward, my stomach pressing on his hand, which makes the sensation of self-pleasure that much more gratifying, and I gather up the courage to place my palm directly on top of his groin.  
He's hard.  
I'm paralyzed. My throat just tightens up, my dick impossibly stiff, and I realize that my own gasps are being echoed. By Sick Boy. Sick Boy's awake.  
Fuck.


	4. Atomic

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.  
His knee moves, pushing his dick against my sweating palm. I instinctually clench my fingers and instantly feel cold sweat creeping down my face when he cries out again, and says, with an incredibly sexual keening: "Reee-eennts."  
I look up at him. Oh, he's sweating. He's shaking and shining like a fucking lightbulb. His lips are slippery, and his eyes pleading, his mouth stuck open, his tongue… If it was even possible, my cock grew ten times harder. It –hurt-.  
I try to swallow but my tongue feels dry and dead in my mouth. I realize I've still got my hand placed firmly on his groin and I'm numb at first, but then I pull it away. It doesn't go as far as his belt-buckle before he snatches it up in his clammy hand, and puts it right back where it was, grinding it explicitly against that unmistakable hardness.  
"Don't stop."  
I loose control somewhere between his fingers clenching around my wrist and his prick pushing against my hand. I unzip him, salivating, and pull out that delectable long column of flesh. I go down on him quicker than a whore in a busy loo. He's velvety, hot, his scent coiling up into my nostrils, making me crazy. Someone would have heard him moan even if they were on the second floor, but at this point I don't bloody care.  
I don't care about anything but this.  
His nails rip into the back of my neck and I could swear it's making me bleed but I don't mind one fucking bit. My hands are holding his hips down and I suck him like a pro, letting him fuck my throat, every down stroke his rough little hairs hitting my chin, the taste of him alluring and addicting and it's no wonder the burds love him so much.  
I lick him and bite him and fuck him with my mouth and he slams his hips into my face, and he comes so hard it makes me choke, but I swallow every bitter drop of it.  
There's a sinking feeling in my stomach when his hands slide off my head and he zips up his jeans, and I dare to look up at him, his spunk lingering in the back of my throat. Sick Boy's spunk.  
He doesn't speak. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't do anything.  
"S.. Simon." My voice sounds tiny and ineffectual in the darkness. My keks are too tight, my penis sticking out in the cold air like an explanation point. Every time he breathes, it twitches.  
"N..No talking." He says, his voice horse. He has his eyes turned up the ceiling, tracing the bare metal beams, like I've done so many times before laying on my back amongst the needles and filth with the junk in my veins.  
That was it. That was the climax.  
I'm horrified. Definitely ready to punch the bugger. But I don't. I just do the easiest thing that comes to my junk-influenced mind; I prop myself up against the nearest wall and do myself off.  
I take myself in my hand and pump away mercilessly, almost angrily. I'm angry. I don't think I've ever been so angry in all my life. I pound my fist over my dick like I'm reloading an automatic weapon. I do it staring at Sick Boy, my throat sore from his bitter cum, making it slightly painful to breathe. I know that tomorrow, I'm going to feel that pain deep down in my stomach, and in every inch of my nervous system, every fiber of my skeleton. The sickness. But I try not to think about the sickness. I think about Simon.  
I imagine he pulls his slender body off the floorboards, shaking the dust out of his hair, and crawls towards me, all feral-like, like the wild cat Spud calls him. Wild cat-boy. He licks his lips and he grins, all charming and Sean Connery and irresistible. A mouth you'd want to take it your hands and just fuck. Hair you just want to twist in your fingers and yank and pull; sex, personified.  
Unexpectedly, it doesn't quite happen like that.  
He stands up. Wobbly, with his legs too straight to walk with, his heels digging into the ground, his arms outstretched, walking like he's a newbabe bairn and it's first fucking time putting his feet to the floor.  
Then, he just falls. Right down. In front of me. Inches.  
On his knees.  
Any sober bloke would have at least winced at the cracking sound his shins made on the wood, but he just looked at me, with his eyes all wide and wet and dark, with this lazy sneer on his lips.  
I dumbly realize I'm still wanking myself.  
He puts his hands on mine and slows my pace. I feel a horrifyingly helpless sound escape from my throat, and lean against the wall, anchoring myself to reality. It comes out like "Nnnn… fuck" and he starts to nip and suck at my bottom lip and I just lose it.  
We make out like teenagers. He forcefully yanks my jeans down my legs, and for a moment I feel vulnerable, and appropriately naked, as I've given up wearing underwear since I started the habit. His teeth scrape my gums and he groans into my ear:  
"Want me to fuck you, Marky, is that what you want?"


	5. You Belong to Me

I feel as if I've been struck by lightning. There was no possible way I could be more aroused. He slicks my dick with a mix of what is most likely my precum, his spunk, and our sweat. My forehead feels like it's about to burst.  
"Simon… what are you…"  
His tongue is in my ear as he starts to cup my balls with one hand, the other slipping down between my arse-cheeks.  
The doss fucker. He must've done this before, he must've, because his fingertips are pushing up inside of me like he's done this about a thousand times. With blokes? Or maybe, it was the burds that let him, burds that just couldn't resist the bastard's lackluster charm and let him ride their arses until sunrise. I think about Simon riding arses and I get vertigo. I feel his finger jam up inside me and I get even dizzier, and I want him even more.  
I know it's going to hurt but at this point I'm invincible. Simon's breath is hasty and simpering in my ear and I've removed my hand from my dick, using it to hoist myself off the floor and into his lap, and he's got his fist tight around me. His hard-on is right up against my thigh.  
I'm Superman. I'm James Bond. I'm Iggy fuckin' Pop. Nothing can stop me.  
I spit unceremoniously into my hand and shove my fingers up my arse, where Sick Boy's have already taken refuge, twisting and turning inside of me in such a manner that when he hooks his index finger eastwards, I shiver and bounce on his lap like a schoolboy. The pain is almost immediately forgotten when I feel the slick head of his dick rubbing insistently against my balls.  
"I can't wait much longer, Marky…"  
And that's it. I pull his wrist away and I position myself and I drop down onto his thighs with an extravagant cry. I would've been self-conscious about the absurd pitch of the sound, but it is echoed with a helpless wail from Simon as all 9 or so inches of his prick gets buried deep in my innards, and that makes the embarrassment that is sure to follow in the morning that much smaller of a price to pay, for the sinister and perverse satisfaction I am experiencing at this very moment.  
Fuck condoms. We've shared needles, we've shared burds. A little bit of plastic between us isn't going to save us from the HIV if any of us has got it.  
The pain is crawling up my limbs like fire, but I grit my teeth and push the sensation into the deep recesses of my porous brain. I lift myself up, slowly, and choke back a carnal scream as I feel his skin pulling against me, a blast of incredible friction, like my whole arse is about to burst into flames. He huffs though, and he whimpers, and when he says: "OhholyfuckinghellRentonthisfeelssofuckinggood" I sit all the way down and then I do it again, the skin on the back of my neck prickling  
and my skin breaking out in goosebumps  
when he moans,

/really/ moans.


	6. Monsters

We fuck like beasts.  
He's digging his nails into my flesh, and he's pumping in and out of me, and my head is getting hot, my blood is boiling, my cock feels inexplicably hard, harder than I've ever been in my life.  
He pushes me onto my back like an animal. The splintered hardwood floor scrapes against my bare flesh, and he pounds me deeper into the ground with each carnal thrust, whispering in my ear; "Rents, I'm gunnae fuckin' blow…"  
He gives me three or four violent thrusts, bucking wildly with abandon and the insanity of impending orgasm, then he pulls his prick out of me and sprays his seed all over my chest. I come without even touching myself. My dick lays in a puddle of spunk on my stomach, jerking in the air with my every heartbeat.  
I'm half-levitating off the floor, arching like a cat. The musky air hits the sweat on my face, and I break out into goosebumps.  
Sick slumps onto his bum, splaying his legs out. He stares at me in the darkness, his eyes and mouth wet like a wolf. He's panting like one, too. All I can hear is his breathing, and my own heart pounding in my ears.  
I gingerly roll onto my side. My arse is bleeding just a bit. I grab a shirt, somebody's shirt, lying there next to the candles and the gear, and I wipe myself off.  
I'm surprised, nobody's woken up and come down to beat us over the head with the cricket bat Swanny kep behind the bar. Nobody's seemed to have gotten up at all, the house is deadly quiet, except for the pathetic gasping resonating from the bodies of Sickboy and myself.  
After a few dreadful moments of further silence, Simon speaks.  
"M'not a fuckin' poof."  
My heart aches a little.  
"Aye. Neither'm I."  
"Shitein' cunt." He wheezes, pulling his pants back up his waist.  
"S'true!" I groan. "I'm bisexual." I smile, completely by accident.  
Simon laughs. Then I start laughing. Then we howl like phantoms, cackling until we run out of breath, and we roll helplessly on the rotten floorboards, just like a couple of drunken o-level gits.


End file.
